Fixation
by lye tea
Summary: She is like a chronic drug. /Sokka x Katara/


**Fixation**

When she was born, he hated her.

Thought she was the ugliest thing in the world with her bright red skin and glossy eyes (and how she never cried—that was the _worst_). His mother called him over and pointed to his sister's creases and the caked birth-blood.

"Come and say hi, Sokka. This is your new sister."

_He knew that_.

"But Mom, she's so gross looking."

"You were that way too."

"Was not!"

She laughed and took Katara away.

. . .

Sokka had a secret girlfriend that only Katara knew about.

"Are you sure it's okay?"

"Trust me. I'm your big brother. I wouldn't let anything happen to you."

She nodded and reluctantly let him drag her down.

. . .

He watched as she drew from the water and made little splashes without touching (and thought she must be a miracle). The only Waterbender in miles around. He could leap and shout with joy, but stopped himself.

And remembers why his mother died.

And hugged her close, thinking that he might lose her too. (She squirmed in his clutch, wiggling like fish out of water, drowning on air.)

. . .

For now, he had his Suki and she had her Aang. And they are content and happy, cheering on Zuko and his Fire Lord airs. She chided him, and he goaded him. And together, he thought they made a perfect circle.

But when they are alone, in a too vast palace (for comfort and ease) she found her way to him. And laced her fingers with his. And called him "big brother". To which he held back the running words and—

she wanted to kiss him.

She could string him by the thread, move him like a puppet, and watch as he cringed from her resurrections of holy lakes. She could do anything she wanted, and he would look at her with idol-eyes and a love unraveled.

But she liked to make herself invisible, and their vanishing moments were never enough.

. . .

"Tell me who you are," _and who I am_, "I want to see you," _and see myself_.

She brushed against his throat and made dents right below the chin with her lips. (One slice, that's all it took to kill a man.)

. . .

Their lives grow smaller and smaller, and suddenly none of it concerned him anymore.

He married Suki, and she married Aang (like it was prophesied, like it was _understood_). And he really did love Suki, and she really did love Aang. _Because love stretched—encompassed more than it could embrace_.

Because—

because you could love more than one person.

And they always returned just to separate.

. . .

He tried, he explained. Stated it flatly and devoid of thought, of emotion. And sometimes, it worked: ignoring her. But mostly, it just snapped him up to pieces inside.

She was beautiful, but her skin turned sallow in the moonlight (when she could raise blood and hell), like _hallowed_ the burnt fat _tallow_. Wickers to candles, they held a vigil into the night. She flickered, and he yielded.

And they caught themselves on fire.

"I'm scared."

_So am I._

"It's okay. Don't worry. You worry too much, you know that?"

"What if someone finds out?"

"No one will know."

_No one cared anymore_.

. . .

Sokka breathed with metallic lungs. They held him rooted to his body and this world and helped him remember who Katara was.

_Sister, lover, whatever_. They chanted to him, instilled every word and meaning into his head. They never discharged ulterior intentions.

He loved her purely, wholly, everything.

And so, when she crept into his room that night, he honestly could say: it wasn't his fault.

. . .

They argued they fought. They were like two squabbling siblings (which was true) battling over territory. Neither one relented. She dug her fingers into him, moaned, and cut him open. He pushed into her and felt her shuddering underneath. They tangled their hearts and limbs (and the bleached sheets).

_Quick_.

Sokka sobbed heavily, sinking pearly teeth into her flesh. In despair, he lifted himself from the mist and saw her naked body on the bed. Greedily, Sokka dipped to taste. Katara gasped and tightened her hold.

She plunged their bodies through the cushions and into the floor, placed there for safe-keeping (because she loved him).

_Now_.

Katara arched her back and met his hips with hers.

. . .

Ultimately, he would forfeit (and let _Her_ win). He would sigh and resign and let fortune take control, let all the pent-up, subconscious wants and brittle thoughts open. And they do, flow forward in fluxes.

It was almost magical, almost wonderful, _almost_ fated.


End file.
